Looking back, getting pregnant was the easy part. It all seemed so simple from then on----just have the baby, raise her or him, and BINGO! a fully actualised adult child, perfect in every way, successful, and proof that I, as the mother have achieved my biological purpose, and we would live happily ever after.
What ever went wrong? I guess ---reality.
Here I am now, at the age of sixty seven, with three adult children, and somehow it is all different.
I listen to other mothers talking of their children and I am left with the perplexing thought ; did they do it better than me, because when they speak of THEIR children they seem to have achieved the great dream , or, is it that they have to build fantasy children to protect themselves from the pain of the loss of the dream?
Whichever way it is for them I am left with the notion that somehow I did not get it right, and THAT must be because, somehow, I got the mothering wrong. How else could I explain to myself the characteristics and behaviours that I sometimes see in my children that I dont particularly like.
I listen to parents of adult children being found guilty in court of various unspeakable charges, and the parents will swear to their children's innocence, while it is blindingly obvious that they are not. Is this what mothers are supposed to do-- avoid actually taking a good look at just how their children have turned out?